Passing Through
by T.J. Lauren
Summary: "No one lives in Vegas, they just pass through."   In which we bear witness to life in progress, in the Capital of Second Chances.
1. Failing Daylight

**Story 01:** Failing Daylight

**Summary:** It wouldn't last long. It never did. Peter was too broken to hold onto hope for long.

**Word Count:** 435

**Disclaimer: **Fright Night (2011) and all characters therein © Tom Holland/Craig Gillespie

**Warnings/Rating:** PG-13 for language and scary shit.

**Author's Note:** No particular timeline on this, could be before, after, or even during the movie, I guess. This was for a ten-minute exercise in my creative writing class. The prompt was to create a mood, and I chose Panic. Got another Fright Night story in the works, a longer piece also centered on Peter Vincent. Enjoy this little snippet for now!

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><p>The sun was setting, and Peter could feel his own spirits sinking with it. Meanwhile, <em>its <em>smile was growing bigger the darker the sky became. The creature was watching him with predatory eyes, pacing along the edge of his last patch of safety. Soon, the light would be gone entirely, leaving Peter with nothing to shield him from the vampire.

The air felt like it was growing colder, biting at Peter's flesh despite the late summer sun. He hugged himself, trying to suppress the full-bodied shudders.

He didn't know why he bothered - the creature could smell the terror on him, all sweat and adrenaline. It could hear Peter's blood pressure rising and his breathing quicken, trying to supply more oxygen to his limbs so he could run away faster. The vampire could sense all of this, feel and smell and hear and see every bodily function as it occurred. There was no need to try and hide the shaking - the creature would still know, already knew, how strongly its mere presence affected him. It _knew_.

Peter crouched in his last remnant of sunlight, gasping and choking on his own tongue. He rubbed his hands over his biceps, trying to ease some of the tension in his muscles. The sun wasn't quite gone yet - he was safe, for the moment.

He could feel wood grain against his skin, digging into his lower back - his stake, tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Peter's mind continued to race, panicked thoughts tumbling over each other, but now, his wild eyes followed the vampire's patient movements with intent. Left through the dust on the floor, stirring it up to float in soft clouds, turn away from the brightness, and right through the dark and the dirt again. Turn away from the lingering light, and repeat.

He might have a chance. He might, if he was fast enough, if the creature didn't see him coming, be able to drive his little splinter through its chest and into its shrivelled mockery of a heart. He might be able to kill the vampire before it could kill him.

Peter slipped one arm behind his back, gripping the worn-smooth oak in one sweating palm, and began to pull it out from under the ragged hem of his shirt.

The vampire paused in it's pacing, blackened eyes smiling at Peter, and he froze. Found out. Caught. Condemned. The vampire didn't even say anything, just choked out a sick giggle, like a child stifling its mirth in church.

He let out a low moan and trembled. Peter's hand eased its grip.

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><p>End<p>

Edit (Feb. 23, 2012) - Previously 'Failing Daylight' was posted as a completed, single chapter piece, but I've decided to extend this into another short story series, similar to "Equipment" and "Chalk Dust." I prefer to keep my profile clean and orderly by placing shorter one-shots, drabbles, and other snippety bits into collections; it just makes navigating it easier. As with my other collections, these are all standalone one-shots, with no specific timeline.


	2. Fishbowl

**Story 02:** Fishbowl

**Summary:** Charley comes home to find that Peter has acquired some new flatmates.

**Word Count:** 1166

**Disclaimer:** Fright Night and all characters therein © Tom Holland/Craig Gillespie

**Warnings/Rating:** PG-13 for language and implied homosexuality

**Author's Note:** Written for the Three Days Only prompt at the 5_prompts at LiveJournal, using Table 16, prompt 5, a photo of a fishbowl sitting on a table with a man lying on a bed in the background.

Some of you may have noticed that this is chapter two of what was previously a completed one-shot. Don't get too excited; this is not a continuation of "Failing Daylight." I recently decided to make that story the first of another collection story similar to "Equipment" and "Chalk Dust." I prefer to keep my profile clean and orderly by placing one-shots, drabbles, and other snippety bits into collections; it just makes navigating it easier. As with my other collections, these are all standalone one-shots, with no specific timeline. Unlike "Equipment," "Passing Through" has no unifying theme, unless you count the fact that nearly all of them will be promptfills, or that most will be around 1500 words or less.

Also, I know this is listed as Friendship/Drama, but probably friendship/character introspection would be more accurate; there's just no subject for that. Also, when I say friendship, I mean that lovely blend of bromance/wouldn't-say-no-to-more that Charley and Peter pull off so well. Which means that some of these may hint, subtly or blatantly, at Peter/Charley slash. Some of you might ask why not just put it in romance, but the point is that it's NOT romance. This isn't flowers and babies and declarations of undying love. This is something far more meaningful and powerful than that - this is a relationship.

I hope you guys enjoy!

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><p>"Hey Peter, are you here?" Charley yelled as he entered the flat, the elevator doors sliding shut behind him. His voice echoed through the open halls, reverberating around the sleek glass cases. He thought he heard some sort of muffled reply as he passed the antiques and artifacts on display. Charley moved through the narrow hallway that led into the great room, where reddened sunset light from the floor-to-ceiling windows filled all the corners of the room until the grey walls seemed to gleam copper. He let his bag slip off his shoulder onto the nearest chair and called out again. "Peter?"<p>

"In here," he heard his friend's voice come echoing back, and followed it through to the bedroom. He found Peter lounging on the bed in his favorite dark silver robe, a cigarette held between two fingers and a thick book laying open on the duvet in front of him. Charley paused in the doorway, taking a moment to admire the languid elegance Peter pulled off so carelessly. He wondered for a moment how much of it came naturally and how much was just practiced affectation. He would not have put it past him, but at the same time, Peter was too lackadaisical to put in that kind of effort when he was merely lazing around his flat.

"Hi Charley," Peter said, casting a sidelong glance over at the younger man before turning back to his reading. He put the cigarette to his lips and breathed in deeply, the cinders at the end flaring golden-red.

Charley realized he was staring and ducked his head a bit. "Hey man. Show got canceled tonight?"

"Mm-hmm," the magician murmured around the cig without looking up from his book. He turned a page and moved to tap the stub of his cigarette against the ashtray laying on the cover next to him. "Something's wrong with the fucking wiring in the theater. All the bloody lights and speakers were fucked up all Friday and Saturday, so they just canceled today's while they fix it. How was your weekend with your mum?"

Charley shrugged and moved closer to sit on the edge of the bed. "It was good. I think she worries about me staying in the city all the time anymore. She always looks so relieved when I stay home with her." He reached out and ran his fingers through his lover's messy hair, combing the dark strands back from the other man's face. Peter hummed and closed his eyes, leaning into Charley's hand. The whole thing was so catlike that Charley had to resist the mischievous urge to scratch under his chin and see if he'd purr.

"Mmm. Tha's nice…" Peter mumbled, letting his head drop onto his arms. Then he shifted and stretched, and Charley let his hand fall onto the bed. Peter wiped his eyes with the thumb of the hand holding the cigarette. "I get why she's thinking that; Las Vegas isn't exactly the safest of places. But I still say it makes more sense for you to stay with me during the week."

"I know it does. You wouldn't believe how much I save on the gas for my bike with the University just down the street," Charley remarked.

A flash of color against all the somber shades of grey caught his eye, and Charley turned to look at the low table against the opposite wall. He knew Peter tended to keep some notebooks and whatever texts he was in the middle of or planning to read there for easy access. Today, however, there was something else on the table. Just in front of the usual antique texts and contemporary occultist magazines was a clear glass bowl filled with water, and in the water, there was something small and shining and orange moving around.

"You've got fish? Since when?" he asked. Peter shot him a quick grin, looking up through his bangs, but said nothing. Charley snorted, then stood up from the bed and crossed the room. He bent over the table, resting his weight against it as he peered through the curved glass at the little creatures swimming in and out of the fake water weeds. "There's two in here… Wait, hold on, isn't this one of those fishbowls from that vamp nest we cleared out last week? The one with the tanks everywhere?"

Peter stubbed out his cigarette and very carefully avoided his gaze, trying to appear nonchalant. "Yeah, actually. I didn't want to just leave them there. I'm having the rest brought in tomorrow." He sniffed and turned another page in his book.

"Peter, there were like five different hundred-gallon fish tanks in there."

Peter rolled over onto one side and propped himself upright with one hand, frowning at Charley. "Yeah, so? It's not like I don't have the space," he said, gesturing around at the enormous penthouse. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "What?"

Charley shook off the giggles that were threatening to erupt. "Nothing, just… for some reason I didn't really see you as much of a fish person. Or, you know… any kind of pet person, really."

"And why the fuck not? I am a perfectly capable pet owner," Peter said, affronted.

"Of course you are," Charley said soothingly, shaking his head. He turned back to the fishbowl. "Did you give them names yet?" he asked, poking at the glass and watching the fish try to nibble at his fingertips.

"Beatrice and Benedick," Peter said, "'Cos they like to pretend they hate each other's fucking guts." He watched Charley flutter his fingers back and forth over the glass, the fish following. Amusement tugged his lips into a soft smile. "They think you're gonna feed them," he remarked, stretching back out across the bed.

"Is it their dinnertime?" Charley asked, turning to give Peter a playful grin.

Peter let out a small chuckle. "Yeah, just about. Their food should be in that little crate over there. You want to do the honours?"

"Yeah, sure." Charley rummaged through the little box and came up with a small yellow jar of fish food. He held it up so Peter could see it. "This one?"

"Yep. Just sprinkle a little across the top. Just a little."

Charley unscrewed the cap and held the little jar over the bowl, tapping it gently so that the colorful flakes dusted across the surface of the water. He screwed the cap back on and watched the two goldfish jet up to the top to nip at the floating food. He heard Peter closing his book behind him, and peeked over his shoulder to watch his lover stretch to set the book on his bedside table and the ashtray on top.

Then Peter moved back to his sideways sprawl on the bed, shooting Charley a sultry look. He started to tug at the belt on his silk robe, his eyes dark and his smile dangerous. "Alright then. Dinner has been served. Feel like coming over here for dessert?"

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><p>End<p>

I've recently written a whole slew of ficlets for various LiveJournal prompts, which I will be posting here over the next few weeks. For those of you here who are serious writers, I highly recommend you head over to LiveJournal. As much as I love this website, I have to say the average quality of writing is far higher at LJ, and there is a lot more support for writers within the communities there.

Also, there is more "Equipment" and "Sorry to Burst Your Bubble" in the works, as well as several new stories. RL is eating me alive right now, but they are coming, I promise!


	3. The Wrong Sort of Place

**Story 03:** The Wrong Sort of Place to be Thinking of You

**Summary:** Charley's brain runs away with him a bit during an in-class assignment.

**Word Count:** 1397

**Disclaimer:** Fright Night and all characters therein © Tom Holland/Craig Gillespie

**Warnings/Rating:** PG-13 for language and mentions of sexual content

**Author's Note:** Written for the Three Days Only Challenge at 5_prompts, using Table 61, prompt 04: It's the wrong sort of place to be thinking of you.

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><p>"Alright class," Charley's teacher said, voice sunny and eyes bored, "Let's work on a creative writing assignment, shall we?"<p>

The students around Charley perked up in their chairs; creative writing tended to mean free writing, which was usually more interesting than essays for pre-assigned topics. Then Mrs. Granada turned to the board, scrawling out "**TOPIC:**" in large, clear letters, and the class let out a collective sigh of disappointment, slumping back down in their seats.

Charley propped his head up on one palm, tapping his pen idly against the desk. He resisted the urge to turn around and look at Ed's empty desk. He knew that no matter how many times he looked, the seat would still be empty. Sometimes, though, it was just instinctive, and he would look before he could catch himself, only realizing when Ed's missing presence registered like a baseball bat to the head.

"You'll have fifteen minutes to write at least a page," Mrs. Granada said, still scribbling out the prompt on the board, "and your topic is your best friend." That made him look up. "I want you to write something about your best friend, and I want you to imagine them in a setting you've never seen them in before. In their old age, in their infancy, on a trip to Japan, whatever you want. Try to imagine them in a situation completely unlike anything you have ever seen them in, something unexpected or out of character, and imagine how they might react to such a situation. Fifteen minutes. Get writing!"

Charley's brow creased as he stared at the teacher. Write about his best friend? His mind jumped immediately to Ed. He did not want to write about Ed. He did not want to think about Ed. Thinking about Ed made his chest hurt and his throat close up, and the guilt became overwhelming. The last thing he wanted to write about was Ed.

He tried to think of someone else, his mind turning to Amy next. He could write about Amy. His beautiful Amy, who knew he was a geek and didn't care. Amy, who he had fought vampires with. He turned his pen over in his hand and brought the tip to the page, ready to start writing, and then paused.

What about Peter? He supposed he could say that, now that Ed was gone, Peter was probably his best friend. Certainly he loved Amy, and he loved to spend time with her, but she was not the one he went hunting with in the evenings. While she was doing track after school, or at home with his parents, or out with her girlfriends, he was usually at Peter's place. He would sit in the back of the theater during Peter's rehearsals, doing his homework and humming along to the ridiculous dramatic music. Other times, he would wait in Peter's suite, studying the books in the magician's expansive library. And on some of Peter's bad days, he would sit and keep an eye on him and make sure he didn't do anything too stupid, and help cart him off to bed once he was too drunk to keep drinking.

Peter was all at once his mentor, the older brother he'd never had, his ward, and sometimes Charley thought he was more than that altogether. Sometimes, he would catch a mischievous glance from across the theater, or long elegant fingers resting slightly too long against his cheek or shoulder, or a tender look during the vampire lore study sessions telling him just how much Peter adored him, and Charley wouldn't know what to think.

He tried to imagine Peter being something else. A Peter who was not a magician, not a drunk, not a 40-year-old orphan with decades of loneliness weighing down his slender shoulders. What else would Peter do? What would have happened to Peter Vincent, had Jerry not torn his life to pieces before his eyes when he was six years old?

Peter could have been… a construction worker? An actor perhaps… except that was another form of performance art, far too close to his current profession as a stage magician to work for this assignment. Maybe a teacher. Peter as a teacher. Peter Vincent, in charge of a classroom full of small children - now there was a scary thought. What had Peter's parents done? He could have followed in his fathers footsteps, except that Charley realized he had no idea what either of Peter's parents had been like. Best not to dwell on that.

Peter as a soccer coach… or football, he supposed, being English and all. From what Charley knew, the older man had no interest in sports whatsoever. A scientist, a cop, a priest… any one of these was so very different from what Peter was now.

Perhaps he was looking at this too superficially. There were so many people in the world who hated their jobs; a career did not necessarily define a person. Peter fit his so perfectly - a master of illusions, hiding himself in plain sight by cloaking himself in shadows, and pretending to the world that he was not broken.

But Charley saw beyond that. He liked to think that he knew Peter far better than perhaps anyone else now. He knew that Peter was far more intelligent than he let on, despite a lack of any formal education. He knew that Peter hadn't held onto any sort of innocence any longer than he'd had to after his parents' deaths, immersing himself in drugs and sex and the darker side of life at a very early age.

So what would the opposite of it have been? He tried to imagine Peter as stupid and could not. It was inconceivable, really. Peter didn't always do the smart thing, but when he wasn't drunk off his ass, he was one of the most intelligent people Charley had ever met. Well-read, with an excellent memory and good critical thinking skills. A Peter who didn't read, who didn't think the way his Peter did, who couldn't explain anything and everything from mathematics to Bavarian folklore to human anatomy, wasn't any sort of Peter at all. Not that the man was a genius or anything now, but still.

Perhaps the other route - a Peter who still held some innocence. What the hell would that be like, Peter untouched by darkness? Fright Night probably would never have come about, or his other show, the old one. Would he have still become a magician at all? Peter, not swearing. Peter, not drinking or smoking or using harder drugs when he thought Charley wasn't going to swing by. Peter not trolling the nightclubs for hot bodies and easy one night stands.

Instead, Peter clean-cut and happy. With a steady girlfriend or boyfriend (or would this Peter be into guys? He didn't feel like getting into a What Makes Gay People Gay debate with himself right now) or perhaps even a wife? Living in a nice house in England somewhere, where Peter would work as a teacher or maybe a doctor (all that intelligence had to go somewhere).

Peter as a father. He would be a good dad, Charley mused, this other Peter who was not so broken and not so darkened. With his intelligence, his very carefully hidden caring nature (he still didn't know about the time Charley watched him feeding a stray cat in one of the alleys down the street from the Hard Rock, gently petting the tiny thing and murmuring softly as it purred), and a life not tainted by a traumatic childhood, how could he not be the perfect dad?

Peter as stupid. Peter as innocent. Not going to work. Those imagined men were too different from his Peter to be the same man. And anyways the assignment was to imagine them in a different setting or situation, not as an entirely different person.

The assignment. Shit. "Three minutes left," Mrs. Granada said just then. Fuck. Fuuuck. Charley put his pen to his still-blank page and just started to scribble something down before he ran out of time, wishing he had just written about Amy after all. He wrote about the happy-father-Peter, wondering if it was too far outside of character to actually work. But then, it wasn't like anyone else would know he was talking about The Peter Vincent anyways.

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><p>End<p>

Very stream-of-consciousness, this... feels slightly messy, even, but I kind of like the flow of it given the point of view. What do you guys think?


	4. Maybe Tomorrow

**Story 04:** Maybe Tomorrow

**Summary:** Sometimes an offer of reassurance is not nearly enough.

**Word Count:** 1128

**Disclaimer:** Fright Night and all characters therein © Tom Holland/Craig Gillespie

**Warnings/Rating:** PG-13 for language, depressing amounts of angst, and mild adult content

**Author's Note:** Written for the Three Days Only Challenge at 5_prompts, using Table 07, prompt 04: Maybe Tomorrow

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><p>Peter took another long draught of his midori, staring out the window at the nighttime neon glow of the city. Charley wished his friend wouldn't make it so difficult just to talk to him.<p>

He cleared his throat, shuffling in discomfort. "Hey, um… d'you maybe want to go out and catch a movie or something?"

Peter sighed and put a hand over his eyes. He looked worn and tired, and Charley knew what he was going to say before he'd even opened his mouth. "I don't really feel like it tonight, Charley," he mumbled.

Charley bit back a sigh of his own, the awkward tension between them making his spine go rigid. A sick sort of feeling filled his belly, and he tried not to squirm. He didn't want to seem demanding when he knew his friend was clearly feeling depressed, but he couldn't help it. He simply didn't have the patience it took to deal with a moping Peter - it made him uncomfortable because he didn't know how to help, and he hated feeling useless. "Come on Peter, you can't just sit around here all night."

"And why can't I?" Peter asked. He rattled the ice around in his glass, dull eyes resting on the nearly empty tumbler, and Charley just knew he was debating whether or not he had the energy to get up and move over to the bar for a refill.

Agitated by concern and a pervading sense of not being wanted there, he went on impulse and let some of his anger show. "Because you brooding isn't going to fix anything, dammit!"

Peter snorted, casting a moody glance that was almost a sneer over at Charley. "Shows how much you know," he said in a low voice.

Charley chewed his lip and wished he knew what to say that would bring Peter out of his mood. "Come on, man, it can't be as bad as all that."

_That _made Peter move, the magician shifting in his chair to glare at Charley. "And what the fuck do you know about it, you little punk?"

Charley shrank back in shame, but at the same time, a part of him felt rather relieved to have some sort of response, even if it was in anger. "Peter, I'm not trying to be rude here, I just…" he waved his hands in a vague gesture before finishing awkwardly. "I just want to help."

Peter scoffed and dropped back into his chair, a black aura of seething pain enveloping him like rusting armor. "Fuck you, Charley."

Charley's temper flared again, but he fought it back. He needed to be understanding here. He didn't want to fight with Peter. He just wanted his friend to let go of his bad mood.

"Peter, I'm sorry," he said, and he sincerely meant it, but Peter didn't even twitch. Charley waited for a long moment, his irritation rising again the longer Peter ignored him.

"'m sorry too," Peter mumbled, the whisper so quiet Charley nearly missed it. He shifted in his chair again, setting the glass down on the floor next to the foot. He drew his long legs up so his knees were tucked against his chest, his toes clinging to the edge of the seat cushion. "Just leave me alone for a while, alright? Let me brood alone for a while, I'll be in a better mood tomorrow. Maybe we'll go catch a film tomorrow, alright? Go on home."

Charley hesitated only a moment. "No," he decided, and moved to curl up in front of Peter's chair, feeling the older man's cold toes squirming against his back a little. "No, I'll stay."

He did stay, all that night. Peter didn't say much, but he didn't throw Charley out either. He let Charley fill the silence with his raspy voice, babbling about anything he could think of. He wasn't sure that Peter was even listening, but he talked anyways. Peter pulled out a pack of cigarettes after a while and smoked about half the pack, one after another. Charley watched Peter's reflection in the window as he talked, watched the thin trail of smoke curl up past his face and drift away to the ceiling. He watched Peter's eyes, staring off into the distance at the city. At one point, he asked what Peter was looking at out there, but the magician either ignored him or didn't even hear.

Eventually, Charley pulled himself to his feet, stretching his arms over his head and bouncing on the balls of his feet as he tried to ease the cramping in his muscled. Peter stubbed out his last cigarette and looked directly at him for the first time in hours. "You going home, then?" he asked, his voice rough from the smoke.

Charley shook his head. "Nah. I said I was going to stay, didn't I?"

Peter just shrugged, getting up himself. He was wobbly on his feet, but he waved Charley off when the teen made to help support him. "Fuck off, Charley, I don't need help walking." He staggered off to his bedroom.

Charley hesitated for a moment until he heard muffled curse on the other side of the partition, then followed. Peter was laid out on top of the bedcovers when he came in, not having bothered to remove his robe. Charley kicked off his shoes and laid down next to Peter.

The rich showman had a really nice bed, the pillows and bedclothes all softer than anything Charley had slept on before in his life, and he couldn't help letting out a little contented sigh as he nestled into the pillow.

He opened his eyes to find Peter gazing at him. His friend's eyes were still dark, but a flicker of awareness was coming back to them as the alcohol started to wear off. He reached out without thinking and stroked the side of Peter's face, smoothing out some of the frown lines. "Everything'll turn out okay," he said softly.

Peter's eyes dimmed again, and he didn't move. "If you say so, Charley," he murmured in a monotone.

Charley's face fell a little. "Wish you'd believe me," he whispered.

Peter didn't answer, but he suddenly looked more sad than apathetic, and aside from the earlier anger, it was the most expression Charley had seen from him all night. Peter moved suddenly, reaching over and pulling Charley close until the younger man was tucked up against his chest, Peter's arms around him, warm and loose and exhausted. Peter pressed his face against Charley's hair, breathing in deep, and he could feel the man trying not to shudder.

"I wish I could too," Peter said, nearly silent so that Charley had to strain to hear him. "Not tonight. Maybe someday. Maybe tomorrow."

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><p>End<p>

In school, I was the person that a lot of my friends would come to when they needed advice or a shoulder to cry on. I never felt so uncertain and useless as those times, because really, what do I know about anything? I wanted to try and capture a little of that helplessness for Charley in this - wanting to help, but not knowing how; not wanting to leave them alone, and wanting to run far far away at the same time; wanting to be a good and supportive friend, but wishing you didn't have to be the responsible one. One of those moments when you struggle to feel hopeful, and ultimately fail, if only for a while. Because sometimes, friendship isn't enough to comfort you.


	5. Samhain

**Story 05:** Samhain

**Summary: **On All Hallow's Eve, Peter takes a moment to remember someone he's lost.

**Word Count:** 1529

**Disclaimer:** Fright Night and all characters therein © Tom Holland/Craig Gillespie

**Warnings/Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Author's Note:** Written for the Three Days Only Challenge at 5_prompts, using Table 16, prompt 03: Light a single candle.

The Joint and Body English are two of the main event halls at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. You can find more information at the Hard Rock Hotel website, which, if you are a writer for Fright Night, I suggest you take a look at to get more of a feel for Peter's penthouse and workplace.

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><p>He didn't have long, just a few spare minutes before he needed to get back to the stage for the final prep work before the show. Tonight was Halloween, so of course the Hard Rock insisted on a spooky holiday extravaganza with him at the helm.<p>

They had already insisted upon a special appearance for the Fetish & Fantasy Halloween Ball on Saturday, but he's Peter Vincent, and they hold his contract in the palm of their hands. So, regardless of how he wished to spend his holiday, he was at their mercy first, which of course meant a special one-night-only Halloween show, one that took months of planning and rehearsal and generally wasted his time.

Halloween meant something very different to Peter. While others were headed off to costume parties to get drunk, or readying their bowls of candy for trick-or-treaters, Peter's thoughts were usually a little more somber. For him, this night was a different sort of celebration - the new year, the death of summer, and a day of remembrance.

After the curtain fall this evening, when Peter had some time for a proper dinner, there would be a handful of extra places set at the table. Charley had been kind enough to offer to eat with him, on one condition that Peter was more than happy to fill. Alongside Peter's three extra plates _(Mum, Dad, Ginger) _Charley would set out three plates of his own _(Ed, Adam, Doris)_; plates that would bear food that would never be eaten, that would stay there untouched.

They would go down to the party at The Joint afterwards, of course, or perhaps to Body English for something a little quieter, and they would probably dance and laugh and have a grand time just like everyone else. Peter was thankfully not under any obligation to remain in costume for the festivities after his show, which meant he could relax and enjoy himself with Charley, and Amy if she was able to make it after all. Nothing said he couldn't have fun on Samhain, he just had a few more layers of meaning to his holiday than most.

After the party, he and Charley would come back upstairs to his place, and Charley could make himself comfortable while Peter made his final preparations, and then he would do the sacred rites - to honour the ancestors, to honour the dying god, who would rise again at Yule, and to remember loved ones lost.

But that would all come later. For now, in his dressing room in the fifteen minutes he had free, he had a small private ritual of his own to perform.

He took a small, white, taper candle out of his bag, then the holder, and set them on the bureau. The long hair from his wig was hanging in his eyes; he pushed it back behind one ear distractedly. He drew a box of matches out of his bag, and finally, a long narrow object wrapped in white cloth.

Peter unfolded the soft cotton with care, revealing a double-edged blade with a dark handle. The dulled knife was old and worn, the carvings on the wooden handle smoothed out from years of use. Peter took the athame in one hand and the candle in the other, and began to inscribe words and symbols into to the soft wax with the tip of the blade.

He started with her name, and continued with an array of ancient runes. _Raidho_, for justice and safe travel. _Kenaz_, because it suited what they had shared together - creativity, passion, lust and love and fresh starts. _Wunjo_, because if anyone's spirit deserved a happily-ever-after, it was his partner-in-crime. _Daeg_, for new beginnings. He carved in other words too, in English and her native Spanish. _I miss you. Te amo. I'm sorry._

He worked slowly, taking his time to carve out each letter. When he was finished, the entire candle was covered with flowing script. He wedged the end of the candle into the holder and set it on top of the bureau before the mirror, then reached for the cloth. Peter wrapped the athame in its cloth, then settled the blade back into the bag and set it aside.

He picked up the matchbox, the cardboard dry against his fingertips. He slid it open and pulled out a single match, striking it against the side of the box to light it. The tip erupted and flared for a split second before the tiny flame steadied. He set the box aside and lit the wick, watching the first drips of wax start to crawl down the engraved sides of the taper.

Peter shook out the match and tossed it carelessly onto the bureau top. He leaned back in the chair, letting his eyes drift over the edges of the mirror. It was _her _mirror, actually, salvaged from her side of the dressing room before they took her things away. He had taken it and put it in front of his own. No one else had a right to that mirror. Despite Peter's name taking all the credit, it had never just been _his _show. It had been _theirs_, and that mirror was the only tangible thing he had left of _their _show.

Tucked into the edges of the frame all around the mirror were all manner of memorabilia. Photos of her and Peter, in rehearsal, backstage, upstairs in Peter's flat. A program from the first performance at the Hard Rock. A few scattered post-it notes with messages in various feminine hands, in Spanish and English - good luck notes and words of encouragement from her girlfriends here in Vegas. A crucifix on a fine gold chain hung from one corner of the mirror. Pictures of her family back in Colombia - mother, father, siblings, grandparents, a million aunts and uncles and cousins and nieces and nephews. There was a clipping from the Vegas Sun, some scathing review of Fright Night that the two of them had cracked up laughing over, doodling mustaches across their own faces in the picture. A letter scribbled in a shaky child's hand onto cheap paper, a birthday greeting from her little sister.

"I'm sorry I didn't save you, Ginger," Peter said, and winced. The room was so quiet that his sad whisper sounded out like a gunshot. He couldn't bear to look at the notes and pictures anymore, and found himself staring into that tiny little flame as he whispered out his confession. "You were just in the other room… I should have realized, should have heard… But you always knew I was no good. Dunno why you stuck around so long anyways. Sorry, luv."

The candle dribbled more wax down, the hot fluid catching on the carved out letters as it crawled down the length of the taper. Peter closed his eyes a moment, a headache starting to pound in the back of his head. "They want me to write a new show for next season," he murmured. "I can't really say no, not if I want to stick around. It won't be the same, though. It hasn't been since… anyway." He sighed and opened his eyes again. He watched the candle burn down, already melting away the top letters of her name, the smoke drifting away into the heavens and carrying his intent with it.

"I hope the Summerland is as beautiful as they say. Or wherever you've ended up. You were Catholic, so Heaven, I guess. Clouds and pearly gates. Whatever. As long as it's beautiful." He cast a sad look at the photos and messages trimming the edges of Ginger's mirror, his eyes landing on one of the two of them together, half out of costume. One of the dancers had caught the pair of them making out backstage and snapped a photo before they could separate. They had their arms wrapped around each other, their faces turned to the camera with matching, comically surprised faces, flushed and happy and randy and alive. "You deserve beautiful, you fierce bitch." he murmured, a grin tugging at his lips.

Someone knocked on the door, making him jump. "Mr. Vincent?" Damn, it was that new weedy weasel of an assistant. The man would not leave Peter alone for more than five minutes. "Mr. Vincent, you've got three minutes to get onstage."

"Yeah, yeah, fuck off. I'll be right there," Peter called back, rolling his eyes.

"Mr. Vincent, now! You're going to miss the opening!"

Peter slammed a fist down on the bureau, then quickly grabbed the candle when it wobbled in place, shouting all the while. "I said fuck off, you bag of douche! I will be. Right. There! Now bugger off!"

He heard the assistant utter some curse back through the door at him, then feet stomping down the hall. He sighed and turned back to face the mirror, looking down at the little candle.

"Sorry Ginger, got to run. "The show must go on," and all that." He stood and turned to go, then paused, looking back at the lone flame. "I'll make it a good one for you," he muttered, then hurried out the door.

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><p>End<p>

I have been DYING to write Pagan!Peter for AGES now. I just feel like it could fit into his character so well; honestly it's kind of become part of my general head-canon. I would have prompted it over at Live Journal myself, but I'm not sure if anyone else other than me knows anything about modern Paganism, so I decided to wait until the right opportunity came along, and then I saw this prompt and knew EXACTLY what I wanted to do.

However, Please keep in mind that while I consider myself Pagan, I do not practice regularly, and a lot of what I do tends to be a blend of several different Neo-Pagan traditions. So please don't get on my case about accuracy or falsehood - I am writing this holiday as I imagine fits with Peter's character and as I understand it, and that may be different from other more traditional Pagans. The best way I can describe it is highly eclectic Celtic Wicca. Everyone practices differently, which is part of what makes these complex and varied religions so beautiful and powerful to me.


	6. Easy

**Story 06:** Easy

**Summary:** Peter is used to nightmares, but that doesn't stop Charley from being concerned.

**Word Count:** 670

**Rating: **PG-13 for language and implied sexual content

**Disclaimer:** Fright Night and all characters therein © Tom Holland/Craig Gillespie

**Author's Note:** Written for the Three Days Only Challenge at the LiveJournal group 5_prompts, using Table 61, prompt 02: Waking from tormented sleep.

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><p>Charley woke to a dull ache in his side. It felt like he had been punched in the gut, and he curled around the injury protectively, letting out a groan. It took him a moment to register that he wasn't the only one making miserable sounds.<p>

Bleary from being woken in the middle of the night, he groped around for the light on his side of the bed. He finally managed to find the switch and flicked on the lamp, blinking when the soft light nearly blinded him. He still felt a little dizzy from sleep, and he scrubbed at his gritty eyes with his wrist before turning to his bedfellow.

Peter lay twisted in the sheets next to him, thin chest heaving and positively drenched in sweat. As Charley's eyes slowly regained focus and adjusted to the sudden glare of the lamp, he could see the tightness in Peter's clenched jaw, the frantic bobbing of his Adam's apple as he swallowed and muttered in his sleep. Violent shudders racked his bony frame, his arms and legs making spastic twitches every now and then. Charley realized that his lover must have accidentally punched him while fighting off whatever monsters he was so tormented by in his sleep.

"Peter," Charley slurred out, putting a hand on the older man's shoulder. "Peter, wake up. You're dreaming, man, it's okay."

With a strangled cry, Peter's eyes flew open and he jerked on the bed before falling still. He stared sightless up at the ceiling for a long moment, breathing long and hard.

Charley stroked a gentle thumb over his collarbone. "Peter?"

The magician blinked a few times and turned, large does eyes landing on Charley's sleepy face. "…Charley?" he finally rasped out, his voice shaky. "Fuck."

"Yeah. You… okay? That looked like a bad nightmare." Charley asked. He scooted a little closer to Peter, and the magician didn't hesitate to pull Charley close against his chest. Peter felt cold and clammy from sweat, but Charley could also feel his lover's heart hammering away in his chest, so he wasn't about to complain. They could shower off together in the morning… which would probably lead to even nicer activities anyways. He snuggled in closer. "You want to talk about it?" he asked, his breath teasing against Peter's collarbone and making the magician twitch a little.

He felt Peter shaking his head over him, and hugged him tighter. "I'm okay, Charley." Peter said. Charley closed his eyes, smiling a little. He liked listening to Peter talk when they were positioned like this; he could feel the magician's voice rumbling through his chest. It made him sound like a lion almost, Charley mused, mind still foggy with sleep. Peter's next words however, woke him up a little more. "I'm used to nightmares, so it's no big deal."

Charley frowned and pushed himself up, leaning over Peter. "You don't have to play tough, okay? You can talk to me about it."

Peter smiled up at him with affection. "No, honestly, Charley. It's just the same nightmare I've always had… it's… it was… _him_. You know. But really, once I'm awake, I'm usually fine."

"Just usually, though," Charley said, searching Peter's face. "Not always."

"Tonight, I'm fine." Peter pulled Charley back down on top of him. "It bothers me less now. He's dead, Charley. He's just a memory now. I'm okay."

Charley groaned. "Dammit, I'm supposed to be comforting you."

Peter chuckled, the sound reverberating through his chest in an even deeper rumble than his voice. His arms around Charley's shoulders tightened. "You being here is comfort enough, don't worry. Go back to sleep."

Charley smiled, nestling in closer to Peter's chest. His lover felt warm and solid beneath him now, his breathing steady and calm once more, and Charley could already feel himself starting to drift. He didn't notice when Peter stroked back his dark curls and pressed a kiss against his forehead. "It's always easiest when you're here, Charley," he murmured, slipping back into sleep himself.

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><p>End<p>

Loved this prompt, but I wanted to try and turn the whole romangsty-comfort-after-nightmares trope on its head a bit. I'm not quite sure if I've managed it, but it was fun trying. This will probably be it for these, for a while at least. I still have a large number of other FN stories in the works - more of Equipment, and several longer standalone one-shots. So be sure to keep an eye on my main profile. Ta, my luvvies, and I hope to hear from you guys soon!


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